Until Tonight
by Lullabyes
Summary: Instead of roses, there was blood. Instead of chocolate, slit palms and bruised flesh. SayaxHaji. A crimson moon, an open sky, and Valentine's Day. Review, pretty please.


_Woah. A fluffy/angsty/schmoopy Valentine's Day piece? _

_What is _wrong_ with me? _

_Written originally for LJ's HajixSaya community contest, and then posted here because Here is Where All My Ficcing Goes. A cold medicine was my muse, instead of the usual caffeine. _

_Which did not, however, stop adult themes from squirreling their way into this piece—all underage readers please be warned!_

_Hope you enjoy it, and review, pretty please. ;)_

* * *

Instead of roses, there was blood.

Instead of chocolate, slit palms and bruised flesh.

The glamour of Valentine's Day, an occasion once every lover's prerogative to enjoy, was suddenly as trifling as an autumn leaf crushed underfoot. An occasion passing by without incident, as removed from their lives as laughter and hope.

As far as Saya was concerned, they were monsters undeserving of such comforts.

She had forsaken festivity the moment she had released Diva from her tower—the moment she had watched their home in the Zoo blaze to ash.

Her fingertips were honed to grasp katanas now—not the stems of roses. Her mouth was shaped for unleashing battlecries—not for savoring kisses.

Futile distractions. Sinful softness. Everything neither she, nor Haji, could ever allow into their lives again.

Monsters, after all, did not subsist in Paradise.

_Or don't they?_ Haji would catch himself wondering, in brief moments of whimsy between each ghastly battle, each grueling journey.

If he and Saya truly were monsters, was it right for him to feel such nostalgia for days of long past? Did monsters ever crave for an arroyo of light? Did monsters ever reminisce of brighter times, as he did about his and Saya's sunfilled sojourns in the Zoo?

They had both been so happy, once upon a time. Subsumed in a childhood of luminosity; a promenade of roses and swans, cream puffs and camomile tea. Scintillating cello lessons by rainy afternoons and tranquil boating trips by crystalline evenings.

All that, and more, before words like _Red Shield, Chiropteran,_ and _Diva_ had drowned their lives like seafoam.

Before Haji's own words to Saya, instead of avowals of passion, contracted to an emotionless, _Saya, you must fight now._

Before Saya's own laughter diffused, replaced by a parched voice that asked only: _Haji, please promise me, when this is all over…_

The possibility of romance decimated before it even bloomed. Nipped literally in the bud; corroded by the pitiless worms of providence.

How Haji would have loved, once upon a time, to present his beloved with the pleated love-knots and embellished cards so prevalent in their era. Pledges of love, ornamented with petals, with a cacophony of mirrors and feathers. Valentine greetings that swept open like fans; trimmed in ribbons and lace. He might've even had a mind to select everything in pink, as Saya preferred.

Or he might have forgone all that fussing formality, kept things simple. Presenting Saya with no more than a blushing-pink rose to pin to her hair; knotting it through dark strands like sunlight kissing the pall of night.

Instead, helpless, he watched as she shredded those same locks with a dagger's teeth. Watched them flutter like plucked petals to the ground; watched her eyes lose that same luster—leaving only the skeletal husk of a stripped bloom behind.

Monsters did not care for embellishment. Monsters did not care for beauty.

Things like candlelight and cherubs, corsages and candies, where not in their vocabulary.

And things like birthdays, Christmas, _Valentine's Day,_ were not in their almanac of life.

_And yet,_ Haji thought, each time that day would pass unacknowledged between them, as insignificant and agonizing as a thorn-prick.

_And yet…_

* * *

And yet here they are tonight.

The war has dissipated to a halt—words like _Red Shield, Chiropteran_, and _Diva_ lose their weight with every passing day. Thirty years of excruciating patience have borne fruit; the peach of a cocoon has yielded from its core this smiling, soft-eyed girl who sits cross-legged before Haji now.

It has been Saya's idea, to celebrate Valentine's Day. Celebrate every waking moment, because her shackles of duty have finally been cut loose. No more blood or slit palms, no more despair. No more fighting and pain of any kind—and nothing, nothing at all to do with regret.

_This is just for the two of us,_ she tells him, confidential hand pressing his. _This is for everything we both missed, because we were fighting the war._

Her concept of a celebration is capricious, he'll give her that. There is no music. No candlelight or wine. Instead, it is almost like their days of travel in the war—both settled side-by-side on a downy cushion of long grass, under the awning of night sky.

The black night is starless. The moon is swollen and red, a succulent apple dangling from a tree.

Giving rise to notions of Forbidden Fruit, waltzing arm-in-arm with premises of sensuality, of discovery. Snakes and gardens. Temptations. Every elemental whimsy neither Haji nor Saya ever had the opportunity to indulge in.

Until tonight.

_What's the matter, Haji? You're being so quiet._

Haji shakes himself from his musings, glancing at Saya.

She is settled an arm's length from him, skin imbued in the glow of moonlight, a cosmic mirror to the red pools of her eyes. Her hair falls in a rippling cascade about her shoulders, bleeding like ink into the quillpot of the night.

Just as Haji fears, in a disquieting omen, that she herself will dissolve into thin air, leaving not as much as an echo behind.

They have both suffered so much during the war. Is it _conceivable_ that they will have a second chance now? A new prospect for hope?

Or will everything just come fluttering to chaos in a single breath, a disintegrating house of cards.

_Haji?_ Saya murmurs, uneasy. _What is it?_

He cannot answer.

She leans closer. Air evaporates from his lungs as her warm fingers touch his cheek. Her eyes are questioning—he has a sense that she is as wary as he over the night's possibilities.

She so badly wants everything to be perfect tonight. She so badly wants to forget about the chilling nights of the war, for him to forget about every slash and impaling.

Wants, somehow, to make all of it up to him.

And he would gladly reassure her, as he has always done, that all is well, he is _fine_, there is nothing to worry about.

Except he cannot bring himself to move.

Her red lips are a hairsbreadth from his. The sight shoots a hot prickle through his flesh; body humming as though stretched tight over a hive of wasps.

The memory of their last kiss, in the crumbling monolith of the MET, is still so vivid.

That single exquisite burning kiss, upon which, during Saya's long sleep, he has constructed a labyrinth of yearnings. But since her Awakening, he has been unable to gather his nerve, to put any of them to fruition. Unable replicate the kiss, to reiterate the declarations he made to her there, of undying devotion, even as the roof pulverized him in tons of concrete and torment.

And Saya too, seems hesitant in bringing up that moment, initiating that gesture.

Perhaps, he thinks, she expects him to forgo his usual reserve, make the first move. Perhaps, more distressing still, she fears that, in the thirty years that have passed, his affections toward her have cooled, that they have channeled toward a different source.

Which is a lie, an utter _anomaly_, in every sense. But Haji has no clue how to tell her. How to fashion a key that will unlock all these unvoiced sentiments, these seething stoppered emotions.

The seed of his every feverish fantasy sits right before him, yet he cannot bring himself to touch her.

Half-fears that, if he will, she will dissolve between his fingers like mist.

_It is nothing, Saya,_ Haji murmurs aloud, and in contrast to the inferno raging within, his voice is calm._ I was simply—_

Her fingers press to his lips, cutting the words off. Her eyes meet his. He is stunned by the stymied terror in her gaze.

_Haji, tell me the truth,_ she whispers, an audible catch in her throat.

_The... truth?_

_All those things you said to me, at the Met? Did you—did you really mean them?_

Shock infuses him, a crackling flash. His lips part like lightning severing a stolid oak.

_What? Saya, of course I—_

_Maybe you did, once. But that… that was decades ago. A lot of time has passed for you since then. You've been waiting around for so long; I'm sure you must have had a lot of time to think things over. You must have had time to remember how much I put you through. How awful I was to you. Even after all that, you… can't tell me that you feel the same way? That you… still love me? It's impossible._

He blinks, regarding her with soft bemused eyes. _Yes, of course I do._

She does not seem convinced. Her gaze, kindling in sadness, remains fixed on his.

Hesitating, Haji reaches out to touch her cheek. Just the lightest graze of his fingertips, like wind whispering across the grass. _Every moment that has passed, Saya. Every second. I have never stopped loving you. None of it has changed, not during your long sleep, and not during the war. And it never will. You must believe that._

She inhales, whether in relief, or from the fleeting contact of his fingers, he cannot tell. Her eyes drop to her lap, as in the face of some sacred catechism. And in so many ways, his words may as well be; has not Saya been his sole purpose for any faith, his single motif for any hope, all these vacuous years?

His reason for being, his rationale for _existing_—he would tell her all this, and so much more, spill all these words like blood and ink across her skin.

But he has neither the courage nor impetus to try.

A cool breeze infuses the night, bending the moon-reddened grass backward, buoying a few scattered leaves into the air. Saya shivers involuntarily, as though she too will lose her moorings to the ground, flutter away.

Her hand closes tight on his, as if to prevent any flight. Or perhaps, even, to reassure herself he is real.

_Haji, I'm…I'm scared._ Her voice trembles.

_Scared?_

_I'm scared that… you're going to disappear. I'm scared that none of this is really happening._ She closes her eyes, squeezes his hand in her own. Her expression is a sensorial echo of his own fears.

_We've both suffered so much in the war. And more than that… I've made you go through so much. But that's why I… I almost feel like I shouldn't be here. Not because it's wrong, but because I'm… so glad for this second chance, I think I'm going to be punished for it. It's like I'm going to lose you all over again. Because I never deserved you in the first place. Not after all I've done..._

His eyes widen, startled.

_Saya…_

And abruptly, her tears spill, gleaming trails of contrition; glowing like lava in red moonlight.

Haji moves on instinct, gathering her into the circle of his arms. She allows herself to be held; her tears burn wet and dizzying through the material of his shirt, hot as rainfall across a baking stretch of desert. As unexpected and miraculous as her own existence in his arms.

So unreal, that he is allowed to hold her tonight at all. Free to breathe her in, to batten on her warmth and pulse, without fear of parting or perdition. No more battles and bloodshed to separate them, no more missions and mayhem to scourge them—they are truly, irreversibly free.

At last.

_I'm sorry,_ Saya breathes, and the moon strikes ruby-shards in her swimming eyes. _I was supposed to bring you here so you'd enjoy yourself. Not so that I'd end up upsetting you._

Shaking his head, Haji smoothes back her hair under a cool hand. _It doesn't matter to me, Saya. I'm just glad I can be here with you._

She bites her lip, burrowing closer to him. _We're… we're supposed to be celebrating. Not grieving, like we're still in the war. All that is over now. Everyone tells me so. But why can't I make myself believe it? Why can't I convince myself this is real? Everytime I try…_ her mouth quivers, a low sob rattling her shoulders_. Everytime I try, I just cry all over again._

Haji closes his eyes, tucking her head under his chin. _Then cry, if you feel like crying, Saya. You're finally free now; you have nothing to apologize or feel regret for anymore. You may do whatever you wish._

She swallows, contemplative. Haji feels the sough of her breathing, feels her racing thoughts.

Then her warm hand lifts, starfishing his cool cheek. And he realizes, too late, that she has assimilated his statement in an entirely different light.

Soft lips overlay his own, warm as syrup, heady as wine. Sinking against his like a ripplet of liquid. She kisses with a heartstopping tenderness that is both hunger and petition.

Both excusal and entreaty.

Haji freezes. Her mouth on his, the warm breath fluttering across his skin, unfetters a chasm of overwhelminag yearnings. Cravings so inexhaustible he could scarcely bring himself to dredge them up. Appetites so vibrant he could barely allow them admission in his own imagination. They have no place here, not at a time like this—it is all wrong, he has no right to impinge anything upon Saya, not after everything else she has suffered—that sort of intimacy between them should be _slow_—it should be _careful_, it _shouldn't_ be—

He jerks back, breathing shakily. Searches Saya's eyes for some sign of madness.

_S-Saya, what are you…_

_Please, Haji._

She leans closer. Her fingers twine gentle and coaxing into the material of his coat. Warm breath ghosting his lips, tangible enough to taste, sweet enough to spellbind. He very nearly closes his eyes; he can spend all of eternity just basking, just drowning in her heat, without ever asking for anything more.

_Please,_ she whispers, and her fingers tighten on his coat. _Please just kiss me._

Haji's lips part. He feels words spewing up his throat, undetermined in content. Wanting, perhaps, to ask her if she is sure about this. Or wanting, even more likely, to reassure himself this is not a dream.

But with the hot electric contact of her mouth on his, the first lightning-flicker of her wet tongue, all hesitation dispels like ashes from a tumbled urn.

The breeze picks up around them, a secretive rustling along their skins. Whispers of temptation, an enticing elegy of the night. Saya leans closer, shifting by degrees until she is straddling his lap. His arms lift to coil around her without thought, drawing her tight against him. He can feel the tension, the control, in the sleek muscles of her thighs, the grasping clench of her palms.

Has only to close his eyes, to see ephemeral flashes of battles, where she leapt to conquer Chiropterans exactly this way. Remembering the power that coasts beneath each sinew. Recalling the possibilities, of violence and virulence, that rage through her psyche.

But there is none of that tonight.

Her lips are gentle on his, explorative. Moving in sleek nips, administering tiny sucking bites as piquant as pomegranate seeds. Fingers twining through his hair, branching firmly like roots in cool soil. As though he alone holds her tethered to this reality, as though he alone sustains and nourishes her very existence.

An existence they have never had a chance to celebrate, to commemorate in any way. An existence which Saya once viewed as a blight on mankind, as a disease to be quarantined and eradicated.

Until tonight.

Banked urgency unfurls, heat rising like a boiling spring from beneath his clothes. Flesh suddenly too tight-stretched across searing muscle and bone. Words are forgotten superfluities, discarded like the garments swathing their bodies. Skirts and shirts and buckles and blouses peeling like unwanted fruit-rinds; falling amid long grass, half-inside-half-out, in unspooled puddles of snakeskin.

Haji makes no resistance when Saya urges him backwards, settling astride him. Face caught between her warm hands to receive an unbroken chain of kisses, senses ablaze in a delicious sequence of gasps. His head is crushed into a soft thatch of lilies; pollen-flecked tentacles brush at his ears, grazing his temples. Their aroma, rich and floral, seems to dissipate in contrast to the intensity of Saya's own scent, to the compelling call of her warm skin and the thrum of her blood.

The red moon burns on her like a brilliant ember; painting her body to a smooth gold flagon. Small palms settling unsteadily on his shoulders, long hair cascading about her face, rustling like wispy curtains along his cheeks. Lips melding his, teeth importunate, tongue questing; as though there is nowhere else she can imagine belonging or being.

He expected a celebration tonight, yes. A victory, a salutation.

But never, _never in a million years_, had he pictured it would be like this.

Instead of roses, there is scarlet moonlight.

Instead of chocolate, Saya's welcome fingers on his imploring flesh.

Tension ratchets amid pounding pulsebeats; ragged breathing escalates to insistent sighs, deepening moans. Wind raises a shiver of goosebumps across Saya's exposed skin, overlapped by his eager palms and thirsting mouth. Cool lips trailing snaky circuits across the pulsing slope of her throat, reveling in the hard gallop of blood beneath. Twin breasts, rouge-tipped as the crimson moon, painted in hot biting crescents by his teeth and tongue.

Each succulent surface, each flavor and gradation, as delicious as the cascade of mewls swirling past her lips.

He feels suspended in a hallucination. Every sensation so vivid as to be _unreal_. In the past, he might have pictured all this in the glow of a dozen candles. Saya's resplendent form reclining against cool linen sheets; eyes alit in a radiance bonfire, lips flavored by a chalice of wine.

But here, the only illumination comes from the burning orb of moon. Scarlet-kissed grass is a supple sheet against his back; Saya's lips are the velveteen wine, curve of her hip the sleek chalice. Drunk on her insatiable kisses, intoxicated by each hum and tremor his lips and fingertips elicit across her skin. Small shaky hands, gripping tight at his shoulders like burning stamps; sweltering saddle of her thighs, circling tight at his waist like a belt of pulsing flesh.

Her body is poised taut as a bow over him; lip snared between teeth, Saya sinks down into him, in exquisite, excruciating slowness. Plunging him into a sizzling new realm of sensation, suffusing him within a mesmerizing portico to oblivion.

Haji's eyes roll back to his head; a sharp noise vibrates in his throat, fingers imprinting fervid testimonials into her flesh. Fighting the urge to shift up under her, to rock, to _move_, until that first epoch of pain fades from Saya's face. Her eyes are awash in tears again; he sips at them like nectar spilt from a halved fruit. Can smell the fresh copper of her blood, taste the salt of her sweat—but more than that, feel her livid _need_ burning like a furnace around them.

Instead of roses, there are trembling limbs and pounding heartbeats.

Instead of chocolate, the searing rapture of hot skin on skin.

He lets her set the pace, take the lead. An unbroken seal of how things have been between them, for centuries past, and will forever remain.

The moon blazes red and entrancing. He watches it cycle the entire cradle of the sky, without seeing it at all. Senses blurred to a hazy injunction, every second gasp pulsing sparks behind his eyes, until he seems to _inhale_ the sultry texture of Saya's skin; to _taste_ the breathy staccato of her moans. Absorbing every undulant rocking movement, every shuddering uncontrolled cry; as varied in quality and flavor as an overflowing catacomb of wines.

Sensation suffusing him the same way, transporting him to this breathless trance that transcends the finest symphonies.

The night, the whole sky, seems lit up, each muted shade as brilliant as peacock feathers sweeping before his eyes. He sees each detail across Saya's face; the glossy curl of her lashes, the radiant glow of her red eyes. Head tipped back, lips parted by a pearly ridge of teeth; hair gleaming in ribbons across her brow, stirring and swaying along her shoulders.

And he watches on, vital seconds dipped in glittering amber, as she ripples into a sudden taut arch above him. Fine cords on her neck straining, skin shimmering under a glaze of mutual sweat. Fingers and toes curled tight; scarlet coursing hot across her cheeks as she unleashes a full-throated cry into the night.

His resultant release hits in a pulsar, scorching every synapse and cell to dissolution. Entire body shuddering, igniting from the boiling heat of her, sizzling from the cataclysmic impossibility of this moment.

Instead of roses, there is the salt tang of cooling sweat.

Instead of chocolate, Saya's exhausted form collapsing limp and quivering against his.

No corsages and candlelight. No embellishments and love-knots. Only the maritime aroma of spent passion and the sound of labored breathing. And yet, as Haji curves a loose arm around Saya, feeling her heartbeat canter to a slow halt against his skin, he knows the most extravagant convention, the most radiant pink bloom, cannot compare to this.

Nothing, _nothing_ in this realm can even come close to _touching_ it.

Paradise is not composed of roses and laughter, of cherubs and sunshine, as he once believed.

Paradise is infused in dusky shadows and drugging sighs. In blistering heat and spiccato heartbeats. Paradise is the roar of blood behind his ears, and the flavor of lush tremulous lips on his own.

Paradise is what is allotted to him at last, in Saya arms, and he smiles faintly, wanting to tell her that she was wrong all these years, for believing that they, the monsters, had no hope of it.

He has tasted paradise tonight, on a middling Valentine's day. Strained to touch it with his very fingertips, watched it erupt beautiful and livid as a sunburst across the sky. Except—

Instead of blood, there is only the glow of dawn in the eastern horizon.

And instead of chocolate, there is only the sublime sound of his name on Saya's smiling lips.

* * *

_You likey? You don't? All reviews and critiques welcome ;)_


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